


Catalyst

by Caraine



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caraine/pseuds/Caraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Order of Grey Wardens flies no flag but its own in protection of all peoples.  To that end, each Warden-Recruit must swear an oath to renounce all titles and claims as part of the Joining.  Unfortunate, then, that neither Elissa Cousland or Alistair Theirin paid much heed.  Now the Blight is defeated, just what is to become of the so-called Grey Warden King and his Queen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  
_Join us brothers and sisters._  
_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant._  
_Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn._  
_And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten._  
_And that one day we shall join you._

**~~~*~~~**

Riordan lay broken and bloodied from his tumble through the sky. His hope, along with his body, dashed upon the unforgiving ground as splatters of rain struck his face, cool against the flushed heat of his skin.

His fate was no surprise: a Blight could not be defeated in a year. None at Montsimmard, or any other Warden stronghold, had held any expectation that it would be.  All had dismissed Ferelden as lost; a necessary sacrifice in order that the Wardens might bolster their numbers and ready their defences across the remainder of Thedas.

For that reason, Riordan had held his tongue during the Landsmeet.  What did it matter of the Cousland girl had violated the very essence of the oath sworn at the Joining by placing Maric's bastard on the throne?  What was to be gained by his shattering the fragile peace—a peace required to stem the onslaught of the Horde for a time—by objecting to this forbidden acquirement of titles?  The brief ascendency of Elissa Cousland and Alistair Theirin to political power would only ever remain a footnote within the historical ledgers; a detail the scholars would debate and compare with that of Warden-Commander Sophia Dryden but which would have no real consequence.

And then, the night of the victory at Redcliffe, Elissa Cousland had fled—taking with her any creeping doubts Riordan may have had regarding the attainment of the Ferelden Crown.  Although he kept his thoughts to himself, the Senior Warden did not believe that either he or the so-called Grey Warden King would survive the battle at Denerim.  Without her King, Elissa could be no Queen.  All would remain as it should.

Yet in the midst of the battle, while Riordan had wrestled with the 'demon high in the air above the city, a surge had shuddered through both his body and that of the creature as the screech of Elissa's taint rejoined the shrieking concordance echoing through his blood.  Wherever she had departed, she had been wrenched back to the city and her duty.

Alas, it was too little too late.  Unless she had returned with all four heroes of the previous Blights, it would make little difference.  Even as his sword had ripped through the wing of the 'demon, causing the thing to buck and throw him from its back, Riordan knew there was nothing more which could be done.  All that stood before the Archdemon now were two young and inexperienced Grey Wardens who knew nothing of anything.

A Blight could not— _would not_ —be defeated in a year.

Then Riordan felt it.  Sprawled upon the ground, his limbs at grotesque angles, he still felt it.  A release: a moment of sheer bliss as the screams of the Horde resonating through the taint converged into a single beautiful note which pierced through the pain and struck at his heart, shattering the cold hard despair which had become encased around it.

Victory. How, he could not begin to imagine; yet he felt the truth of it in his blood. The Archdemon was destroyed.

... and something else. Even while the flicker of life within him grew ever fainter, Riordan could sense the presence of both young Wardens through the taint, as strong as he ever had.

No, it could not be.

As the darkness reached out to claim him for its own, Riordan could find no peace in it. Slipping beyond the reaches of any healer, the last thoughts of the Senior Warden were haunted by the knowledge that where there should remain only one Grey Warden within Ferelden, two still existed.  The dog-lords had their victory—and Ferelden was now ruled by a Grey Warden King and his Warden-Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to EasternViolet for her beta skills. (Chapter Revised: 24/5/15)


	2. Chapter 2

Atop the tower roof of Fort Drakon, a lone figure perched upon the parapet, huddled against the blustering wind which blew in from the Amaranthine Ocean. His cheeks were numb and when he wetted his lower lip, he tasted salt. Still, it was a fair price to pay if it meant not having to suffer the stench of the rotting dragon carcass at his back nor endure the swarms of flies which plagued the narrow streets far below.

The ruined city of Denerim lay stretched out before him with the highest battlements of the Palace gilded by the last of the light, so crisp and clear this late in the year, as the sun slipped behind the jutting summit of Dragon’s Peak at his back. A flash of refracted light caught him unawares and Zevran recoiled, flinching a little. Someone throwing a window open, perhaps. He wondered if it was Anora, locked in the tower at the behest of the King during the Landsmeet; but he had no way of knowing for certain.

Beyond the Palace, above the estuary where the River Drakon and Amaranthine Ocean met, the assassin could just about make out the small specks which he took to be gulls, soaring in the wind currents before diving into the water. Once or twice, above the whine of the wind as it whistled through the ancient stonework of the Fort, he heard their mewling cries.

Their presence was a welcome sign. Too often during the three days since the defeat of the Archdemon, the smoke from the burial pyres had drifted across the estuary and chased away what few birds remained. Doubting himself for a moment, he darted a glance to his left but the haze hanging over the horizon confirmed that the many corpses, both soldier and darkspawn alike, continued to burn on the many pyres which lined the outer city walls.

Zevran heaved a sigh. Sten saw to the pyres, not he. When his thoughts turned to the smouldering flames searing the tainted from this blighted land, the elf took it to be a timely indication that he should return to his self-appointed duties. There was little point in wallowing over what had been lost.

Hopping down from the edge of the parapet with an instinctive surefootedness, Zevran hoisted a small sack filled with vials and poultices over his shoulder. His habitual pragmatic attitude had allowed him to undertake a task which no one had yet seen fit to do: scavenge much needed supplies from the corpses which still littered the Fort.

Making his way across the roof top, Zevran headed back down the many levels of the Fort, every wall blood-splattered and gore-streaked in some way. He paid no heed to any of it until the distant sound of conversation floated through the still air and gave him pause. Only the most desperate had ventured near Fort Drakon since the battle but for those who wished to make some coin from looting the armour and weapons, there was ample opportunity. While his status as a companion of the newly-named Hero of Ferelden had protected Zevran thus far from any opportune attack, he remained reluctant to test the extent to which such a thing could be relied upon.

Glancing around, the elf muttered a curse. So confident had he been in his assertion that there would be no one else within the Fort, he had not bothered to pay attention to his surroundings. Now, he found himself in a sparsely furnished hallway containing only a torn tapestry and a toppled bookcase from which tattered books lay scattered about the floor. There was nowhere for him to conceal himself.

Loud bursts of laughter joined the rumbles of conversation and Zevran felt his initial apprehension begin to ease. There were precious few within the city who would have the resilience of spirit to laugh quite so freely in a place such as this. They were not scavengers.

True enough, his assumption was proven correct. A group of dwarves appeared at the far end of the hallway. This was what remained of the regiment which King Bhelen had sent to fulfil the treaty owed by Orzammar to the Grey Wardens. Although the conversation halted at sight of the assassin, two or three of the dwarves still offered Zevran a curt nod of acknowledgement as they filed past. None stopped to question his presence. Instead, the group simply continued onwards to the staircase at the other end of the hallway and began to climb up to the rooftop.

“Wondered where you’d got to.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Zevran discovered Oghren loping towards him, a great axe slung over the dwarf’s shoulder. Some way behind, two templars flanked a weary-looking mage as they escorted him after the company of dwarven warriors.

“There is need for these supplies and precious few who can be trusted to fetch it,” Zevran responded to Oghren’s greeting, gesturing with his free hand to the sack he supported at his back. “I may as well prove myself useful.”

Oghren grunted his approval. “No time to be mawkish.”

While he spoke, the templars and mage passed by without sparing so much as a look in the direction of the pair. Trailing after the company of dwarves, they left the two companions alone to speak freely without consideration for who else might hear.

“Arl Guerrin ordered us up here,” Oghren continued, jerking his head in the direction of the departed dwarves. “Wants the ‘demon dealt with. Figured we’d know best, what with the ‘spawn in the Deep Roads.”

“And the mage?”

Of the fifteen mages which Kinloch Hold had sent to honour their treaty to the Grey Wardens, only five had survived the final battle. Of those five, Zevran knew only a young woman named Liahn. A stern-faced Enchanter, she was nevertheless an accomplished healer and spent the majority of her time within the Guerrin estate tending to the two Grey Wardens and Leliana. It was clear that she enjoyed some position of trust within the Circle since she was permitted to go about her duties without a templar escort. She was, however, expected to report to Knight-Captain Joel at regular intervals throughout the day.

“Firecaster,” Oghren offered by way of explanation. “Can’t have any of the city dwellers eating the dragon flesh. Blight sickness will finish off what the ‘demon started if that happens.”

He fell silent as he scrutinised the dwarf, his mind racing to make connections. “If you are disposing of the creature, you will have looting rights to the dragon scale and bone, yes?”

“Yeah.” Dropping his eyes to the floor, Oghren shuffled from foot to foot. “That was the price the Captain hammered out with the Arl.” He darted a sidelong look towards Zevran. “I’ll be havin’ none of it. Doesn’t seem right, eh? Not when… considering Elissa and Alistair almost… well, you know.”

He did know. But that was certainly not what made Zevran smile. “It is preferable that we profit from their misery as opposed to strangers, yes? Our Wardens would not hold that against you.”

“Not just Wardens anymore,” the dwarf let out a loud guffaw, but the sound lacked conviction. “Soddin’ royalty!” The forced joviality vanished as Oghren lowered his voice, his expression growing more serious. “The boy awake yet?”

While it had been Elissa to strike the final blow against the beast, both she and Alistair had dropped like stones moments after it occurred, knocked unconscious by the destruction of the connection they held with the corrupt creature. Having been taken with all due haste to the sanctuary of the Guerrin estate for healing, Elissa had been the first to recover. Alistair, however, remained unconscious—although Arl Eamon worked hard to ensure that such a fact did not reach beyond the immediate ears of those who had direct links with the King.

Zevran shook his head in response to the dwarf’s question. “He was not when I spoke with Liahn this morning. But perhaps there has been some change since then.”

“Bloody hope so. We need some good news,” Oghren grimaced.

Indeed, save for the defeat of the Blight, there was precious little good news to be had amongst the companions: Riordan toppled from the beast itself; Shale shattered as a result of the work of an Emissary; the Mabari overwhelmed by a swarm of gunlocks. And then there was Wynne. The High Enchanter had sacrificed her life for that of Elissa when she summoned her Spirit of Healing one final time near Redcliffe Castle. The how and the why of such a selfless decision were still too raw for Zevran to dwell upon.

Turning his head, Oghren spat a glob of phlegm onto the dirt-smeared flagstones of the hallway, narrowly missing one of the tattered books. “Heard Morrigan buggered off. Big soddin’ surprise.”

“She evidently considered her part in this to be over.”

In fact, the Witch had disappeared within a day of the battle. The only thing missing from her odd collection of belongings was a mirror fragment which had been in her possession since before Zevran had joined with the two Wardens. The Witch would often study it while in camp and Elissa had eventually explained that it was a shard from a corrupted Dalish Eluvian which had lain in the Brecilian Forest. She had been unable to clarify why Morrigan would keep such a thing and Zevran certainly had no idea why the Witch would take it as her sole belonging now.

Perhaps odder still was Enchanter Liahn’s insistence that the Witch was pregnant. Yet Morrigan knew the ways and means of such things: even if she had recently lain with a man, she would not have been so foolish as to conceive by him. With that in mind, Zevran had privately dismissed the assertion of the Circle mage and made no further mention of it.

Oghren grunted. “Reckon all of us would like to think we were done with this nugshit. But me, you and Sten are all still here.” Abruptly, his expression softened and he sucked on his teeth. “Heard about Leliana—”

With a visible grimace, Zevran interrupted his companion. “She is in the care of Liahn; we can only hope for the best.”

There was precious little else to do. Of all the surviving companions, including that of Elissa and Alistair, it was the pretty Orlesian Bard who in fact bore the most visible injuries—though Zevran was well-aware that they were not necessarily the ones which would prove hardest to heal. She had borne the brunt of an electrical spell cast by an Emissary which had caused severe burns and other severe injuries deep within her body. While Alistair had not regained consciousness since the battle, Leliana had been kept in an enforced sleep while Enchanter Liahn sought to remedy the extensive injuries. The welfare of both was a great source of anxiety for the young Enchanter and Zevran did not envy her position.

Pushing such worrying thoughts to the back of his mind, the assassin summoned a strained smile for Oghren. “But I will not keep you from earning your dragon bone, my friend. We can speak further another time.”

Shifting between his feet, Oghren threw a lingering glance towards the far doors through which the regiment of dwarves had disappeared. When he turned back to Zevran, his cheeks were a dusted pink.

“Do you honestly reckon Elissa and Alistair… do you think they’d understand?” He swallowed. “If it were just me to consider, I’d turn it down. But… there’s Felsi, see.” The colour in his cheeks deepened as he referred to the dwarf barmaid who worked at the tavern near Kinloch Hold. “And, well, there ain’t no soddin’ way that she’ll even look at me if I don’t go back to her with something. So taking and selling my share of the beast, for Felsi’s sake… would they mind?”

“Truly?” Zevran conjured in his mind the image of the dragon carcass lying where it had fallen after Elissa had driven Alistair’s sword through its body. “I do not believe either will care so long as it no longer haunts them.” He flashed a warm smile towards the dwarf. “What use might anyone have for an archdemon save for the gold it can fetch? Make your coin, Oghren.”

* * *

Having convinced Oghren to claim the reward for his work, Zevran returned to his own task. Distributing the supplies he had scavenged was a carefully thought-out endeavour. Firstly, he visited the Alienage. While he had once declared that he felt no kinship with the city elves, or with the Dalish given his early disastrous experience, he nevertheless understood that their survival was of precious little concern to anyone else. Perhaps it was wrong of him to prioritise his finds in such a way but the humans were looking to their own, so he may as well champion his own race. No one else would.

Despite the presence of the _Hahren_ —Valendrian, Zevran recalled—it was Shianni who organised the distribution of the supplies. Her sharp tongue ensured that the worst cases were given priority or woe betide the one who assumed their need was greater. She accepted the supplies from him without thanks. Zevran suspected that the woman did not appreciate relying on the assistance of an outsider, even if his ears were as pointed as her own. But in these exceptional circumstances she knew better than to refuse outright.

From the Alienage, Zevran intended to make his way to the Dalish who had established a small camp outside the city where the North and West roads converged. En-route, he stopped at the small chantry located in the marketplace where Knight-Captain Joel, the templar in command of the Circle mages, had claimed residency. Preferring to keep close to where Enchanter Liahn carried out her work in the nearby Guerrin estate, the Captain had declined the invitation to make use of the now-empty Cathedral located near to the Palace. It had been divine providence indeed which led the Grand Cleric, accompanied by a guard of templar-knights, to evacuate Denerim only a day or so before the Horde fell upon the city.

Yet with the absence of the Denerim templars came the absence of lyrium. Before they had departed, the Denerim templars had made sure to ransack all their reserves of the highly addictive substance. The result was severely dwindling supplies for the Kinloch Hold contingent. Knowing a little of the lyrium addiction which plagued the soldiers of the Maker from his conversations with Alistair, Zevran had been keen to offset the limited availability through his scavenging. While he cared little for the withdrawal which the templars would be forced to endure, the assassin was concerned that the Knight-Captain, unable to counter the withdrawal effects or conceivably control the mages, would make the decision to return the mages to Kinloch Hold and so leave Leliana and Alistair without a skilled mage healer.

All of which had led Zevran to the doors of the marketplace chantry. Yet when he attempted to enter, he discovered the doors to be barred against him. It was only by braying against the door with his fist that he succeeded in forcing one of the Chantry Sisters to come and speak with him. Even before he could explain his purpose, she informed him that the Chantry was closed on the orders of the Knight-Captain while he and some of his templars investigated a matter of utmost urgency at the behest of Arl Guerrin. The mention of ‘urgency’ and ‘Guerrin’ was all it took for Zevran to make immediately for the estate.

Arriving into the house by way of the servants entrance, it being less intrusive than that of the main entrance, the assassin discovered the household to be in organised uproar. Whilst there was no clear reason for such high feeling, it nonetheless pervaded amongst all the servants. Something had happened.

Given the lack of information, which was unusual when all servants had eyes and ears, Zevran could only assume that the issue centred on the young soon-to-be-coronated King. It was only in matters relating to Alistair that the Arl bothered to exert such effort in ensuring complete ignorance amongst the servants. That the Knight-Captain had been summoned, or at the very least seen fit to involve himself, only added to the assassin’s anxiety. Leaving the servants to their suppositions, Zevran moved through the house on silent steps, heading for the west wing where Alistair, on insistence by the Arl, lay in far grander surroundings than that of Leliana and Elissa who had been assigned rooms on the east wing.

What he discovered at the entrance to the west wing was an almost frantic Elissa, frenziedly pacing the width of the hallway, babbling to herself. Two templars stood guard a little further down the hall of the west wing itself. Equipped in full armour, including helms, Zevran could only guess at their expressions—but the constant back and forth movement of their heads as they watched the woman was proof enough that their unease lay entirely with the newly-titled Hero of Ferelden.

“I need to see him; I need to see him; I need to see him.” It was almost a chant, as fervently spoken as any scripture. She was insensible; her behaviour was not of a coherent mind, but that of a madwoman.

To bear witness to her turmoil was a discomforting thing. Not least because Zevran struggled to find any compassion for this woman who had abandoned her cause and her friends at the most vital moment, whose desertion had ultimately led to the sacrifice of Wynne and whose poor judgement was responsible for the horrific injuries suffered by Leliana. Yet because of all she had accomplished before she had fled, the assassin could not despise her. Ah, conscience was a fickle thing. He was certain he had been better without it.

“Elissa—”

He got no further before she had rounded on him, wide-eyed and wild. She covered the distance between them in about three strides and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Something’s wrong, Zev. Something’s wrong with him,” she insisted, her face only inches from his own. “Something’s very wrong.”

He only got as far as opening his mouth before Elissa interrupted him. Perhaps she had sensed that he was about to insist that Alistair was in the capable hands of the mage healer.

“Zevran, I can’t sense him.” Her eyes bored into his. “I can’t hear him. I can’t feel him.” Releasing one of his shoulders, she clawed at the back of her neck with her fingers. “He’s not _here_.”

From the indistinct muttering between the templars, it was clear that they were close to regarding the young woman as completely crazy. Certainly, she sounded that way—at least to anyone who had not spent almost a year travelling with the two Grey Wardens.

But his own feelings towards her and her actions were pushed aside with the realisation that her current concern, however overdue, was both genuine and based on good reason. Although Zevran did not fully understand the workings of the taint and the ways in which the Order seemingly wielded power over it, it had not taken him long in the company of his two Wardens to realise that they had an ability to sense one another. He had never known it to fail.

“Have you shared your concerns with Liahn?” he asked with urgency.

“No. No! They,” she whirled away from him and began to advance on the templars, who immediately barred entry to the hallway behind them, “won’t let me!”

“As ordered by the Knight-Captain and Arl Guerrin,” one of the templars replied testily.

Something did ring not true with this scenario. “She has been barred from visiting the King?” Zevran queried, brows rising to meet his hairline as he hastily positioned himself between Elissa and the templars.

“After what happened, it was deemed safer.”

“After?” he echoed.

“She triggered some kind of fit within him.”

“You’re lying!” Elissa exploded from behind the elf, spitting venom over his shoulder in the direction of the templars. “You’re lying! It wasn’t me! I didn’t do anything!”

His years of training with the Crows were no more valuable than at that very moment. With reflexes borne from countless assassinations, Zevran turned on foot just in time to wrestle Elissa back from flinging herself at the two templars. She struggled in his grasp for a few moments before the fight vanished from her and she sagged against him. Gingerly, Zevran eased her into a sitting position against the wall.

“They’re lying, they’re lying, they’re lying,” she muttered, holding her head in her hands. “I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t.” She began to rock back and forth where she sat. “I did it so it wouldn’t hurt him. I made him so it wouldn’t hurt him. Or hurt me. No one was to get hurt. Morrigan promised. Morrigan promised no one would get hurt.” She jerked her head up and blinked dazedly at Zevran. “Morrigan! Where’s Morrigan? Morrigan will know; where is she?”

Whatever it was that the woman was spouting, the meaning was clear only to herself. The ramblings of a broken woman were all that Zevran could hear.

“Morrigan is gone, Elissa.”

The young woman stilled, pained acceptance etched across her face. “She said she would. She said she would—but she said it wouldn’t hurt him! She promised!”

“Elissa,” Zevran spoke with an air of command, crouching down beside her, “I will go and speak with Liahn.” He turned slightly to throw a questioning look towards the templars; one gave a slight nod in confirmation that he would be permitted to pass. “But she will not understand if I speak only of the taint. Explain to me what it means for you not to sense Alistair.”

Taking a ragged breath, Elissa distractedly smoothed back the strands of hair which had fallen across her face. “It’s like breathing, Zev. It’s just _there_.” Her expression began to crumple. “No, more than breathing. It’s part of us; in us, on us, through us. Even if he were dead, I would still sense it within his body. But there’s nothing, Zev. _Nothing_.” Her eyes filled. “Something’s wrong.”

None of that would prove any use when trying to explain to Liahn. But Zevran forced himself to smile and gave a short nod in acknowledgment. “I will report all of this to Enchanter Liahn,” he promised.

Straightening, he turned to the templars who, as they had indicated, briefly stood aside so that he could pass. Walking the considerable distance between where he had left Elissa and the bedroom in which Alistair lay, Zevran had plenty of time to ready himself for the worst. But when he arrived at the doorway of the room, he discovered only calm and serenity. Liahn fussed about the bed where Alistair lay, still unconscious but apparently at ease, while the Knight-Captain and the Arl spoke together in low tones in the corner of the room. All of them stopped when Zevran coughed.

“Ser Arainai,” Knight-Captain Joel acknowledged, moving to intercept him. “I would ask that you do not disturb the Enchanter.”

“The Hero,” he deliberately used Elissa’s new title, for what it might be worth, “is expressing concern over the welfare of the King. Since she is barred from visiting, she asked that—”

“The situation has been resolved,” the Captain cut him off. “The King is in good health considering what he has faced. There is no cause for concern.”

“But there was cause for concern, yes?”

The Knight-Captain’s hesitation damned him. Yet while the man struggled to find a suitably vague response, Liahn shot the briefest of glances towards the assassin. It was a clear plea that he not argue—unusual for the usually poker-faced Enchanter. Zevran took it in the manner it was intended and readily submitted to the renewed insistence of Knight-Captain Joel that he should leave.

Returning to Elissa, the assassin assured her that Alistair was well—he was breathing of his own accord and the picture of tranquillity as he lay in his bed. No, he was not awake but neither the Arl, Knight-Captain nor Liahn seemed overly concerned.

Clinging to him, Elissa pulled herself up onto her feet but Zevran sensed that she accepted his report simply because she did not have the energy to do anything else. Smothering a sigh, he helped her return to her room so that she might rest, remaining with her even though he would have much preferred to be elsewhere. She could provide him with no further answers about the situation, or at least no answers which made any sense to him. It was only when Enchanter Liahn arrived that Zevran felt a flicker of hope that an understanding of some sorts might be forthcoming.

“How is Alistair?” Elissa demanded immediately. “There is something wrong, isn’t there? I know you told Zev everything was fine, but you know there’s something wrong, don’t you?”

“There is nothing wrong with the King,” Liahn said, too deliberately for her intent to go unnoticed. There may be nothing wrong with the King, but the same could not be said for Elissa. “He is well—now.”

The careful emphasis had a marked effect upon Elissa. All her nervous energy fled and she sank down upon the bed, cradling her head in her hands as she at last accepted the connection between the sudden deterioration in Alistair’s health and her proximity. “It’s me. I’m causing it.”

Liahn gave a deep sigh. “I do not understand how, Elissa, but it is true. Your presence aggravates him, even while he is unconscious. As soon as you were removed, he calmed immediately and I could find nothing to explain his distress. If anything, it was as though his body was responding to a battle stimulus.”

A low moan wrenched itself from the young woman.

“Elissa.” The gentleness with which the healer spoke hinted at the devastation she was about to deliver upon the woman.   “You cannot be permitted near Alistair until I can be certain of counteracting the effect. It is harmful for him to endure it but it is also harmful for you to witness it. You must not go near him or his rooms or even the wing where his room lies. Do you understand?”

If she did, Elissa gave no sign of it. “A Warden healer. We need a Warden healer.”

Liahn pursed her lips. “Perhaps you do, Hero. But until one makes themselves known, you must make do with me.”

It was as though the Enchanter had not spoken. Elissa suddenly jerked her head up and fixed on Zevran. “The Orlesians! The Orlesian Wardens. Riordan spoke of them. They were at the borders. If we send word—”

“It will take weeks, Elissa,” he protested. “And that is if you are correct.”

“It’s something to do with the taint, Zevran! A Warden healer will _know_. Please, a message has to be sent to the Orlesians.” She abruptly stood up. “I’ll go. I’ll go speak with them. I’ll bring back a healer. The healer will fix him and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.” She made for the door but Zevran intercepted her.

“Leaving again?” he asked, voice cold. “And what am I to tell Alistair if he wakes and you have left? Again.”

“N-no,” she faltered in the chill of his condemnation. “It’s not like—” All at once, her temper ignited. “Don’t think you understand me, Zevran. You have no idea why I left.”

“No. And I have little care to hear the explanation,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “I need only see the effect that it had upon your companions.”

“We won,” she snapped.

“No. You delivered the final blow but it is not your victory. You are a coward and your concern for the King is of little worth now.”

“Zevran!” Liahn was sharp in her rebuke. “It does not help to rile her. And Hero,” she turned a scathing look upon Elissa, “physically, you could undertake such a trip. But by no other means are you fit for such a journey.” She took a deep breath. “A message can be sent but you will not be the one to take it.”

Her position as healer gave her an authority which even the Arl seemed loath to challenge. If Liahn decreed that a message should be sent, it would be sent. Especially if it was linked to the welfare of the King.

“I’ll go.” Zevran spoke quietly but fervently.

“It is a matter for Arl Guerrin,” Liahn countered quickly, keen to divert any objections from Elissa. “I will inform him that you expressed an interest.” She looked to the woman. “Now, will you give me your word to remain at a distance from the King?”

Wordlessly, Elissa nodded. The small gesture seemed to break her and she retreated to the bed, throwing herself down upon it.

“And since you cannot be trusted to remain here,” she addressed Zevran, narrowing her eyes, “you will come with me. Now.”

Without arguing, Zevran left the room. Liahn lingered a moment or two more as she passed soft-spoken instructions to the Hero. When she returned to the hallway, she closed the door behind her before shaking her head at Zevran, moving in the direction of Leliana’s room.

“Do not remind her of her desertion.”

“Why should she not be made to face her actions?”

“Zevran,” the healer stopped and turned to face him. “She is manic. It is true that whatever healing High Enchanter Wynne bestowed prior to her arrival at Fort Drakon helped to protect her body from the blow against the Archdemon. But her mind? It is close to shattered. Unless you wholly intend to break her, you must go gently with her.”

“She did not go gently from us.”

“And yet she came back.”

 _Not of her own accord_ , the elf wanted to say but held his tongue. Elissa Cousland had been all but dragged back to Denerim. Had she not met with a straggle of darkspawn near Redcliffe, the army would never have seen their so-called Hero of Ferelden again. As it was, the Mabari had located her scent when even Alistair was deaf to her tainted call, so littered was the land with the corpses of darkspawn.

She was bloody and bruised after a chance-attack from a patrol of darkspawn scouts. Poisoned from an arrow wound and left for dead beneath the hulk of a dead Hurlock, there was little reason to hope that Elissa would survive long enough to reach Denerim let alone be fit to do battle. Therefore Wynne had elected to remain behind, suggesting that the girl be returned to Redcliffe Castle which was only two days behind the army. The High Enchanter had also requested that Zevran accompany her. At the time, it had made little sense for Wynne to insist upon such a thing; now Zevran understood that even before the end of her preliminary examination of the young Warden, Wynne had realised exactly what would be required to heal Elissa.

Wynne’s sacrifice meant that any need to remain in Redcliffe Castle was redundant—and wild griffons could not keep Zevran from Denerim longer than necessary. Sheer strength of will had got Elissa back to the city, but it had not been her own: Zevran had harassed, bullied and taunted her to uphold her oath. It was only when the cityscape nearly filled the horizon that Elissa had finally accepted what needed to be done. Perhaps the sight of the Archdemon silhouetted against the sky had convinced her of how much danger lay ahead for her friends.

“Zevran.”

Blinking at his name, the elf glanced towards Liahn. She had an air of suppressed irritation around her but she reached out and laid a cool hand against his forehead, murmuring an incantation beneath her breath.

“Go gently with yourself as well, Zevran,” came her quiet rebuke. “You cannot continue to take such burdens upon yourself.”

“I have taken no burden save for the care of my friends.”

“Who happen to be the saviours of a Blight,” the healer responded, removing her hand. “Come; I know visiting with Leliana soothes you. You may sit at the bedside while I tend to her.”

Leading the way to the Bard’s room, Liahn entered and immediately relieved the elven servant who was ordered to keep watch over the woman. While the Enchanter began to sort through the accoutrements upon her crafting table, Zevran moved to the chair which was always positioned by the bedside and sat down. Leaning forward, he gently clasped one of Leliana’s hands between his own as he cast an anxious eye over the Bard.

It was true that Zevran found solace in the company of the red-head, even if she gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. Her injuries were severe and disfiguring, but he had little care for such things. Leliana had been a constant companion to him and he would not abandon her now. He could only hope that wherever she currently dwelt in the Fade, she felt the same towards him and the others.

“What is her prognosis?” he asked of Liahn.

The Enchanter briefly turned her head in order to spare him a cursory glance over her shoulder. “She will need constant care if I cannot reverse the effects of the electrical damage throughout her body. You know this, Zevran. It is the same as it was yesterday and the day before.”

“I know.” But it did not stop him hoping for a different answer each time he asked.

She evidently heard something of the bitter disappointment in his voice. Setting an empty vial down on the table, Liahn turned fully from the table in order to catch his gaze. “I am doing all I can, Zevran. I promise you this.”

While the elf did not doubt that Liahn was indeed doing all she could, he did wonder if it was in her capabilities to heal such grievous injuries in so short a time. Each of the companions had suffered a multitude of wounds and injuries over the past year and the recovery time had differed accordingly—but there had always been a recovery time. Even if Enchanter Liahn could reverse the devastating effects of the spell upon Leliana’s body, who would ensure that her recovery progressed as it should?

“You will not remain here indefinitely though. What will happen to her when Knight-Captain Joel orders the return to Kinloch Hold?”

She regarded him with the closely-guarded countenance of an experienced healer. It was answer enough.

It occurred to Zevran at that moment that his prayers should not be for the recovery of Leliana, but the prolongation of Alistair’s unconscious state. While the King remained incapacitated, the Knight-Captain would be more reluctant to remove access to the healing skills of Enchanter Liahn from the Crown until it was absolutely necessary. With Leliana however, there would be no such concern and the abandonment of her care would be readily dismissed as unfortunate but unpreventable. It was a terrible thing to wish for the recovery of one friend at the temporary delay of another—and yet Zevran suspected that Alistair would not hold it against him.

He carefully replaced Leliana’s hand upon the bed before he pushed back against the chair and stood up. “It would seem that I would be more useful to Leliana if I continue to source additional supplies of lyrium rather than remaining here.”

“So it would seem,” the Enchanter concurred in a soft tone.

Bowing to the healer, Zevran made a swift exit from the room. Yet as soon as the door closed behind him, his shoulders hunched as the weight of responsibility settled firmly upon them. Defeating a Blight had been a gruelling and exhausting task; surviving the victory was proving to be even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to EasternViolet for her beta skills. (Chapter Revised: 23/6/15)


	3. Chapter 3

The thought of anyone within Ferelden surviving the Blight, let alone claiming a victory over it, was not something which even entered the heads of the Orlesian Grey Wardens patrolling the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. For more than a year, they had kept vigil over the routes across the mountains, intent on stemming what could only be the inevitable: the invasion of the Horde. The real question was whether the Archdemon would accompany its minions or if it had already sought out fresh territory from which to summon those in its thrall.

Yet the inevitable had not occurred.  Far from it, in fact; the Horde had been thwarted and the ‘demon slain. Or so the rumours went. Yet Torih Bell'annar, an _elvhen_ Senior Warden stationed at Jader, did not put faith in rumours. Not when there was such talk as the appointing of a Grey Warden King with a Warden Queen-Consort at his side. Such a thing was an anathema and so, by virtue of the defeat of the ‘demon belonging in the same breath as this attainment of titles, he dismissed it all.

“Rumours placed the ‘demon at the settlement of Redcliffe,” he scoffed during a meeting amongst his fellow Senior Wardens, disgusted by their readiness to grasp at frail hope but only crushing it in their haste to embrace it.  “Yet the Horde did not advance through Sulcher's Pass.  If the ‘demon had been there, why would it return to Denerim rather than advance into Orlais?”

“You can feel it, Torih: the call of the beast is silent.”

“That means nothing!” He slammed his fist down upon the table by way of punctuating the rebuttal. “It merely means that we can no longer sense it. It may have moved beyond our reach, be it into the Deep or across to the Free Marches.”

On and on and on, the discussions went. Circling around what may or may not be without advancing the argument from either side.  All that could be agreed was that the rumour of a Grey Warden King could not be true. Senior Warden Riordan had been present within Ferelden; he would not have permitted the dog lords to crown their would-be saviours. Grey Wardens forsook all claims and titles when Joined: it did not matter if the blood of Calenhad flowed through the body of one while the other once belonged to one of the most powerful old families in Ferelden. Alistair Theirin and Elissa Cousland were Grey Wardens, no more and no less.

Yet to admit one discrepancy was to cast doubt upon the rest. Slowly but surely, Torih won more of his Brothers and Sisters over to his thinking. Or at least, he convinced enough of them to question what was supposedly known. And in the end, that was all which needed to be achieved.

At last, the other Senior Wardens agreed that confirmation must be sought before informing the Warden-Commander at Montsimmard that the Order might stand down its call to arms. Yes, the Thaw—if the ‘demon had indeed been defeated—would require Warden reinforcements to enter into Ferelden, but it would not require the vast numbers necessary to withstand a Blight.

So it was that only a day after the ‘demon's cry had gone silent in their blood, Torih entered into Gherlen's Pass with three rank-and-file Wardens. Although he had been permitted to enter into Ferelden in spite of the potential political fallout, he had also been forced to make concessions.  No native Orlesian Wardens were to accompany him, nor any who had recognisable Orlesian accents.

One of his comrades was an Anders woman, a warrior, who had arrived at Jader about nine months after Ostagar, requesting permission to fulfil her Calling against the Blight in lieu of answering it in the Deep.  Another was a Nevarran entropy mage, withdrawn and lacklustre in his duty yet skilled none the less. He had supposedly once been considered a promising apprentice of the Mortalitasi, the secretive necromancer Order in Nevarra. But Torih placed as much credibility in that tale as he did the defeat of the Archdemon. His third companion was a former pirate from Rivain named Eneas, adept at leaving knives in backs, both figuratively and literally.  As for Torih himself, he was elvhen, even if had no _vallaslin_ to prove his Dalish origins. His fellow Senior Wardens often remarked that his contemptuous pride did much the same job.

Sure of foot and swift in pace, the Wardens did not dither nor dally. Through Gherlen's Pass they went, past the gates of Orzammar, curving around the northern point of Lake Calenhad before advancing along the North Road.  Over the course of the past year, the Horde had spread from the south, encroaching upon settlements such as Lothering, South Reach and of course, Redcliffe.  In the north however, despite signs of the tainted creatures having wreaked havoc upon the land, there was less opposition to be faced.  Save for pockets of roaming darkspawn, as bewildered by the absence if the ‘demon in their heads as the Wardens were suspicious of it, Torih and his group met little resistance.

In fact, the Wardens met little of anything, resistance or otherwise.  Fields lay fallow, either abandoned or desecrated by the taint, while farms and inns lay empty or in ruins.  All hint of civilisation, or what amounted for civilisation in this inconsequential country, had long since fled.

“When I emerged from the Deep in Nevarra, news of the Blight had come from Fereldan refugees in the Free Marches,” the Anders woman, Meera, offered by way of explanation for the absence of inhabitants as the group passed by yet another neglected farmstead.  “Passage across the Waking Sea to Kirkwall would not be difficult to arrange from here.”

“I think you may be correct,” Torih conceded, his keen eye raking across blackened and scorched walls.  Some unsuccessful attempt had been made to burn the farmhouse.  There was no trill at the base of his skull to suggest the presence of the taint however, and so the Senior Warden led his group onwards.

“You were in Nevarra, Meera?” came the husky tones of the mage, Bronys, from his self-appointed position at the rear of the group.

As the woman half-turned so that she might address Bronys directly over her shoulder, Torih caught sight of a dark legion upon her throat, emphasised by the sickly pallor of her skin as it crept from beneath the heavy plate of her armour.

“Yes, Warden,” she replied—and even if Meera overlooked the fact that Bronys winced upon hearing the title, Torih did not.  “I went to my Calling in the Deep near Weisshaupt but the Roads lay empty.  I followed them for as far as I was able but emerged topside in Nevarra.  That was when I heard about the Blight.”

Falling back a few steps, Eneas slapped the younger man on the shoulder, grinning as he did so.  “Bronys here gets homesick at the mere mention of Nevarra.”

“You have never considered serving in your homeland?” Meera enquired of the mage, her head cocking to one side as she regarded him with faint surprise.

“I choose to serve at Jader,” Bronys muttered, shrugging off Eneas with a roll of his shoulders.  The rogue took it in his stride and continued to lope beside him, unperturbed by the rebuff.

Having dismissed the conversation as irrelevant, Torih had turned his attention to the horizon as he inspected the route ahead.  There was a cloud of dust rising in the distance, indicating some fast paced creature navigating the barren road.

“Meera,” he now interjected into the conversation, brushing aside any further comment which might be made with regards where Bronys chose to be stationed.  “What do you sense?”  So close as she was to her Calling, if not actually overdue given her story, Meera’s abilities were far more heightened than even his own.

Snapping her head round, Meera followed the gaze of the Senior Warden.  Her forehead wrinkled into a frown as she turned her focus inwards, searching for any telltale signal which would alert her to danger.  After a few moments, she shook her head with a short exhale.  “Nothing, Senior Warden.  Whatever it is, it is not tainted.”

Indeed, it was not tainted.  It was something far more distasteful: a mounted messenger dressed in royal livery.  He had been tasked with the duty of informing the few natives who had not fled, or perhaps simply had nowhere else to go, of what had transpired during the battle of Denerim, now almost a week hence.  Of the battle itself, he had few specifics to impart.  But the tale of the Grey Warden King?  That, it appeared, was already practically legend.

“Such a thing cannot exist,” Torih growled, his fist clenching around the hilt of the small hunting dagger he kept on his belt.  The animal whickered at the elf’s tone.  “There can be no ‘Grey Warden King’.”

“I’m telling you,” the man laid a soothing hand upon the neck of the horse, “the King was accepted at the Landsmeet. He's as good as crowned. Soon as the last of the ‘spawn are burned, he'll have his Coronation.”

“He will never be crowned,” Torih insisted, caring little for the shadow which darkened the messenger's features at his continued antagonism. “And there is yet to be confirmation that the Archdemon has in fact been defeated and not just retreated.”

“Retreated?” the man scowled, drawing himself to his full height as he sat upon his horse.  “Tell you what, you carry on to Denerim and tell the Hero of Ferelden that the ‘demon isn’t defeated.  She’ll give you a better answer to that than I ever could!”

Responding to the stiffened posture of its rider, the horse pawed at the ground whilst its head jerked a little, bridle jangling at the abrupt movement.  Torih regarded the creature through narrowed eyes.  Dalish he may be, at least at one time, but a master of animals he most certainly was not.

“You give titles to those who simply witness such feats?” he enquired of the messenger, still with one eye on the horse.  Despite the man’s posturing, it would be impossible to converse with the Grey Warden who had actually destroyed the ‘demon.

“Witness?”  the man exploded, pulling up on the reins to prevent the horse from skittering further.  “Elissa Cousland slew the damned beast!”

A stillness fell over Torih.  The only movement was in his eyes as he fixed a piercing stare upon the messenger.  “And she lives?” he questioned, voice hoarse.

“Course she bloody does,” the man snarled.  “The King too.  The only Grey Warden lost was that Riordan fellow.  He managed to ground the beast on the rooftop of Fort Drakon but was thrown from the sky for his trouble.  There’ll be some tribute built to him soon enough, no doubt.”

Vindication flowed through Torih—just as he had informed his fellow Senior Brothers and Sisters, the Archdemon was not dead.  It could not be.  If Elissa Cousland had landed the final blow and still lived, the ‘demon must have sought out another vessel prior to the destruction of its dragon form.  Although why the creature would not continue its assault upon the city, Torih was at a loss to explain.  Perhaps it had been injured in some way or was too weakened and was forced to retreat from the confines of the city in order to recuperate for a time.  Regardless, it was clear that reinforcements from Montsimmard would need to be permitted to enter into Ferelden post-haste—as if there was not already significant political interference from the Order.

He made to speak once more to the messenger but the clank of armour from behind alerted Torih to the approach of Meera.  So too did the sudden hard swallow of the messenger as he fought against his revulsion at sight of her.  He hastily averted his eyes, busying himself with patting at the neck of the horse, murmuring inaudible comforts to the creature—and himself.

Meera paid no heed; she was likely accustomed to such reactions to her almost ghoul-like state.  “This Alistair Theirin,” she began in her clipped Common, fixing an unblinking gaze upon the man. “What talk is there of him?”

The man cast a surreptitious glance towards Torih, weighing up whether this was a ploy or not. For what it was worth, it was most definitely not. But the answer still intrigued the Senior Warden, as it clearly did Meera.  Anticipating that his removal from the immediate vicinity would placate the man, Torih retreated to where Bronys and Eneas were sitting by the roadside, sharing a waterskin between them.  They both looked up at his arrival but Torih held a finger against his lips, his back to the messenger helping to obscure the movement, as he relied upon his acute hearing to pick out most of the conversation.

“What do you care?” the man enquired, still bristling from the exchange with Torih.  He refused to look at Meera.  “Your companion over there has little time for him.”

“I am not my companion,” came her considered response. “I care a great deal for the advancement of one of our own.”

That brought Torih up short.  Not even the most foolish of Senior Wardens at Jader had advocated that either of the Fereldan recruits should be permitted to hold the throne, if such a farcical situation had indeed come to pass.  What was this nonsense, from a veteran of Weisshaupt no less?

“Hmph,” the messenger grunted, but appeared somewhat mollified.  He even risked a passing glance towards her.  “What talk do you want to hear?”

“You have already shared with us your message.  But what else do you know about the King and...” Meera paused, searching for the correct title, “... you did not refer to her as Queen.  How am I to speak of this Elissa Cousland?”

“The Hero of Ferelden.”  His chin jutted forward as his shoulders pushed back, a warm affability creeping into his voice as he continued.  “Elissa Cousland; she was the one to slay the dragon.  Although Theirins aren't known for being shy around a dragon, mind you. But the Couslands have always acted according to duty. Between the pair of them, never doubted a victory.”

Even Meera raised an eyebrow at that. “Never?” she repeated.

“Would be unpatriotic to say otherwise.”

A ghost of a smile played about her lips as she inclined her head slightly.  “Indeed.”

“You’re not like him,” the messenger jerked his head in the direction of Torih, finally settling his gaze fully upon her.  “He seems to take personal offence at the King.  Why is that?”

While Meera had closely observed the hierarchy of the Order ever since she had arrived at Jader, Torih doubted that such restraint would be evident now, especially when she was unlikely to realise that he could overhear every word.  Before he could interrupt however, Meera had already answered.

“I am uncertain,” she replied evenly.  “But I trust that there is a reason.”

“Well, a word to the wise, he best not speak to either the King or the Hero like that.  For his sake.  He’ll never make it out of Denerim alive.”

Whatever cordiality had built between the pair instantly crumbled.  Stepping back, Meera laid her hand upon the hilt of her sword and regarded the man with a cold stare.  “Anyone who dares to harm a Grey Warden will be punished.  I do not tolerate threats against my brethren, Ser.”  She darted a glance towards Torih but upon witnessing no reaction from the elf, took that as her cue.  “Since the Senior Warden appears to have no further need for you, I suggest you be on your way.  Immediately.”

Her defence of him was as surprising as her casual acceptance surrounding a Grey Warden acquiring the title of King.  It was effective in achieving her intent, however.  With a colourful string of curses muttered beneath his breath, the messenger kicked at his horse and continued on his journey, no doubt relieved to put distance between himself and the strangely hostile Grey Wardens.

Rejoining the three men, Meera caught the eye of Torih.  “No Anders would have dared to speak as he did,” she explained, accurately interpreting the cause of his muted surprise.  “There must always be respect for the Order.”

A derisive snort escaped from Bronys at the remark whilst Eneas simply rolled his eyes—though whether it be at Meera, Bronys or the pair of them was anyone’s guess.  Torih exercised restraint and ignored both Bronys and Eneas in favour of regarding Meera in silence for a few moments.  Were his attentions not so focused upon Denerim and ascertaining where the ‘demon had fled—as it surely must have done if both Fereldan recruits lived—Torih might have queried exactly how Meera viewed the Order.  As it was, her skewed ideals were nowhere as dangerous as the reality now playing out in Denerim.

Turning back to the two men, Torih cleared his throat.  “The Blight is not defeated, merely stalled,” he announced, rocking back onto the heels of his feet.  “We must press on to Denerim and ascertain to what extent the threat is imminent.  We will either be required to defend against the newly risen ‘demon or we will have to hunt it down.”

So assuredly did Torih speak, and there was no reason why he should not be confident in his reasoning, that none of his fellow Wardens doubted his assertion.  Gathering up their packs and weapons, the group continued on their way towards Denerim, delaying only on the odd occasion when the ‘spawn directly crossed their path.  The Archdemon must be far indeed for the tainted creatures to so fear the proximity of the Grey Wardens.  It was another mystery for which Torih could not account—but it was discomforting how such oddities were beginning to mount up.

Once the group of Wardens crossed the Hafter River, the water level down after the peak of summer and the autumn rains not yet arrived to swell it into spate, Torih judged that they would arrive in Denerim about a week before the end of Kingsway.  Any hindrance to their journey was in fact a result of the increasing number of refugees upon the North Road, making their way back to the city in hopes of receiving succour from their ills.

So great were the number of dispossessed that any creature making away from the city immediately drew attention to themselves.  Even more so when it happened to be a contingent of dwarves pulling a number of heavily-laden handcarts behind them.

A series of guffaws sounded from the regiment upon sight of the four strangers.  “Trust sodding Grey Wardens to turn up at the tail end of a Blight!”

Smothering his bad temper, Torih ignored the catcalls—while Eneas began to bandy good-natured insults with the soldiers—and instead directly addressed the Captain, a dwarf he had previously met and fought alongside when assisting Orzammar in the excavation of tunnels in the Deep Roads, preparing the way for an advancement of the Legion of the Dead. 

He made a fist and then crossed his arm across his chest by way of respect.  “Well-met, Koldrol.”

Sparing a companionable jerk of the head in acknowledgement, Koldrol focused his immediate attention on barking at his regiment to hold their tongues—nevertheless grinning all the while at the exchange of jibes.  He stood to one side as the dwarves continued on their way along the road, heading on foot to the gates of Orzammar. 

“Bit of shit timing on your part, Torih,” the Captain remarked wryly.  “Two of your youngest have already saved the sodding world.”  He arched an eyebrow, accustomed to the habitual disdain of this particular Dalish Wardens and keen to take steps to circumvent it.  “Bloody good job they did of it too.”

Lightly grasping the dwarf by the elbow, Torih drew the Captain out of hearing of any passing refugees as well as his own Wardens.  “No, Koldrol.  They have only bought us time.  The ‘demon lives.”

“Not sodding likely.”  He jerked a thumb towards one of the many carts which the dwarves were hauling along with them.  “Dragon bone.  That’s your sodding Archdemon right there.”

“Show me!”

Whistling shrilly to one of the nearest carts, Koldrol waved down two of his men and gestured to Torih that the Grey Warden was welcome to examine the contents as thoroughly as he liked.  Untying the bindings with deft fingers, Torih threw back the coverings which hid the dragon bone from covetous gazes and ran a hand over the smooth bone, brow furrowing as he searched inwardly for the remnants of a tainted call.

“I can hear it.  Faintly.”

He half-turned and was unsurprised to discover Meera immediately behind him.  There was a faraway look in her eye and an almost serene expression on her face, smoothing out the careworn lines which creased her skin.

“What does it sound like to you?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.  He had served fifteen years as a Grey Warden and fully expected to serve fifteen more.  This woman though: her time as a Grey Warden was only twelve years and she was already at her Calling.  He was intrigued to know what awaited him.

“Harmonious,” she replied, ever the source of brevity.  With a shake of her head, Meera gathered herself and shrugged off the allure of whatever she could hear.  “This was the ‘demon, Senior Warden.”

He was forced to agree.  Although he heard only a whispering of the screech which would have reverberated through his blood whilst the creature lived, there was no mistaking the call of an Archdemon.  Stepping back, he signalled that Meera was to refix the coverings and retie the bindings whilst he spoke with Captain Koldrol.  With nothing better to do, both Bronys and Eneas assisted her, the two dwarves who pulled the cart highly amused to see the Wardens submit to such menial work.

“Koldrol, a moment more of your time,” Torih requested of the dwarf, once more retreating out of earshot.  This revelation that the ‘demon had indeed been slain overturned everything he had presumed regarding the battle and the suppositions he had posited over the survival of both Fereldan Wardens.  “You fought in honour of the Treaties of the Silent Plains?”  He paused only long enough for the Captain to give a nod of confirmation.  “Were you present when this creature was felled?  We have heard that it was killed upon some rooftop—Fort Drakon, is it?”

“Yes,” the dwarf grunted, shaking his head at the memory.  “Grim enough being topside but being ordered to fight in the sodding sky?”  He clicked his tongue, folding his arms across his chest.  “Torih, whatever else you think of your young ones—and it’s sodding clear you don’t think much—there’s precious few who could inspire my men to fight on a rooftop.  I was waiting for a mutiny.  But there wasn’t a single complaint.”  He snorted before adding, “well, no more than usual, anyway.”

Brushing aside the man’s defence of the young pair, Torih focused on what was imperative.  “Give me an account of the battle.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Koldrol debriefed with the practised ease of a long-serving soldier.  The army of dwarves, elves and humans, each summoned to honour the Treaties of the Silent Plains, were commanded by the Grey Warden King who was aided by Riordan and two more companions: a Qunari warrior and Oghren, former husband of Paragon Branka.  Whilst the army had fought through the city, felling two of the commanding darkspawn emissaries, Riordan had tackled the beast alone and succeeded in hindering its ability to fly, shredding its wings with his sword so that it was forced to land upon the rooftop of the Fort.

“What of the girl?”  Torih interrupted.  “She is being hailed as the Hero of Ferelden.”

Koldrol gave a brusque nod of his head.  “Right time, right place,” he muttered.  He went on to elaborate that Elissa Cousland had been absent ever since the King and Riordan returned from the ruse at Redcliffe.  Near the end of the battle, she had stumbled onto the rooftop of the Fort, heedless to all about her, and made straight for the ‘demon.  Her unexpected arrival almost cost the King his life: distracted by her appearance, it was only the well-placed arrow from a Dalish hunter coupled with a defensive spell from one of the Circle mages which spared him from an opportune blow from a hurlock.

“He was surprised to see her?” Torih queried, his frown deepening. 

“Rumour had it that she had deserted.  Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t.  But sure as the Void is deep, the King did not expect to see her on that rooftop.  They even had a scuffle.”

“A scuffle?”

“He tried to prevent her from going near the beast.  She was having none of it.”  A wide grin spread across Koldro’s face.  “There's some will admire him more for taking her as his wife than putting down an Archdemon.”

Torih pressed his lips together, privately evaluating that the chances of these two being permitted to marry were almost as likely as their being allowed to take the throne.  It was clear to him that Alistair Theirin and Elissa Cousland were a dangerous combination.  “So what changed his mind?”

At that, Koldrol not only grinned but added a rumble of laughter.  “That girl has a temper on her.  Nothing stands in her way once she’s made her mind up.”  His eyes gleamed with the promise of some salacious detail.  “There’s some say she told the King he was to take her as his wife.  He didn’t have much say about it at all.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Torih closed his eyes as he attempted to exert some control over his own bad temper.  “On the rooftop.  She persuaded him to step aside, yes?”

Indeed, she had.  Given the urgency of the battle, the King had relented.  Handing her his own sword, he had stepped back and allowed her direct access to the creature, issuing hurried orders to all that her advance was of paramount importance and must be assisted in whatever way necessary.  Upon reaching the ‘demon, the young woman had sunk the blade deep into its flesh, at which point a blinding light had emanated from it, stretching far up into the sky and blinding every sodding creature on that rooftop.  When their vision did restore, it was to discover the Archdemon slain and the two young Wardens collapsed and unconscious.

Torih seized on the smallest ember of hope.  “Some of the ‘spawn must have escaped from the rooftop then?”  This was the only explanation Torih could summon for Elissa Cousland’s supposed survival.  Somehow, the blow which the girl landed against the dragon had not been a killing one and the soul of the ‘demon must have passed into another darkspawn.  It was the only way.

Yet Koldrol swiftly stamped out that hope.  “No.  The doors were barred; as much to prevent more creatures spilling onto the rooftop as it was to hinder their retreat.  Regardless, the ‘spawn were as paralysed, if not more, by the flash of light.  Not one of those creatures made it off the roof alive.”  He frowned slightly, recalling the recollections of the aftermath.  “None of them made it out the Fort alive actually.  All the lower levels of the Fort were cleared so that the King and Hero could be taken away to be healed.”

It was becoming increasingly unlikely that the ‘demon had passed into another vessel.  It would seem that the creature had indeed been defeated—and the Grey Warden had lived to tell the tale.

Yet there was still one detail to which Torih clung, fixated in his desperation.  “Both Wardens required healing—was it successful?” he demanded, his speech over quick.

“Now that I can’t say,” Koldrol inhaled deeply, his gaze on the backs of his departing men.  The cart which had stopped to allow Torih to examine the dragon bone was now trundling on its way, having been repacked by Meera, Bronys and Eneas.  “One of their Arls insists that both are healed and simply resting.  Not exactly surprising.  But...” he trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “A Circle healer is present at all times at the estate where they were taken immediately after the battle.  No one has seen either of them since the battle.  All arrangements have been made by Arl Guerrin.”

It was not much but it was something.  Perhaps Elissa Cousland had died a short time after the blow against the ‘demon.  Alistair Theirin might also be dead, although that was less likely. 

“What of the blood, Koldrol?” Torih asked, his thoughts abruptly turning to the other uses reserved for ‘demon carcasses.

“Scorched in the flesh or rinsed away by rain,” the dwarf shrugged, nonplussed.  “No coin to be had in ‘demon blood, is there?”

_How little you know_ , Torih thought to himself but he buried his dismay deep within.  To be denied access to a vital part of the Joining concoction would have repercussions.  Everything about this damned victory over a Blight was to have repercussions, it seemed.

“Inform the Assembly that the Order extends its gratitude to Orzammar for their assistance,” he reverted to formalities, preparing to depart company from the Captain.

Koldrol gave a brusque nod.  “Bhelen is keen to establish links with the surface.  He’ll probably send messengers to Montsimmard as well as Denerim.”

“Bhelen?”  Torih arched an eyebrow.  “So the Assembly came to a consensus at last?”

The Captain snorted, rolling his eyes.  “Course not.  They needed sodding surfacers to make the decision for them.  Your Fereldan Wardens put Bhelen on the throne.”

Yet another example of interfering in matters which did not involve the Order!  “They are not _my_ two,” Torih growled from between gritted teeth. 

With a slight chuckle, Koldrol shook his head.  “Torih, I’d recommend you stand with them and not against them.  There is no faction within this country which does not owe them in some way.  They have forced us all to bend to their will.”

Well-meaning or otherwise, the Senior Warden refused to be advised in his dealings with these erstwhile Fereldan Wardens.  As good a soldier as Koldrol was, he could not hope to begin to understand the intricacies involved with serving within the Order.  Too many wrongs had been committed by Alistair Theirin and Elissa Cousland for Torih not to stand against them.  It would be tyranny otherwise.

Murmuring a farewell to Captain Koldrol, Torih rejoined his Wardens.  All of whom regarded him with varying degrees of wariness at his evident sour mood.

“It was indeed the female Fereldan Warden who slew the Archdemon,” he remarked, watching Meera closely.  The sacrifice required to end a Blight was a closely guarded secret within Orlais—he knew neither Eneas or Bronys would understand the significance of the comment—but given Meera’s unexpected attitude towards the attainment of titles, perhaps the Anderfels was not so discrete in what information was disseminated amongst their rank-and-file Grey Wardens.

There was not so much as a flicker across her face.  Her expression remained that of a perfected mask.  “I would have assumed that the King would have insisted upon such a privileged task,” she replied, almost mildly.

An excellent point, if only she realised it.  Perhaps she did.  But it was not sufficient for Torih to divulge what he knew.  He would instead address that question directly to Alistair Theirin.  That the young man had stepped aside and allowed his betrothed to take what should have been a killing blow spoke of some understanding of the consequences involved with the defeat of a ‘demon.  However, the issue of survival was one to be broached with Elissa Cousland.  If she was still alive.  For her sake, Torih hoped not.

So many questions and doubts and possibilities crowded into his mind that it was difficult to make sense of it all.  No, it was not that he found it difficult.  It was that such things should be impossible.  There was no way to make sense of this because the situation was impossible.

All answers would need to be sourced in Denerim—and Torih was intent upon having his answers.


	4. Chapter 4

Grey and grim, Denerim reflected the attitude of its people as it brooded under a lacklustre sky.  With the defeat of the Archdemon more than a week behind—creeping towards two, in fact—many were becoming increasingly uneasy at the prolonged absence of both King and Hero from their public duties.  Was there to be no relief from the trials of the aftermath of the Blight?

Zevran had no answer for them.  He had become the sole representative of the two Grey Wardens, an acknowledged companion—one whose pointed ears made him more familiar to most than either a dwarf or Qunari—and someone who was often seen upon the streets, stripping the remaining corpses of any item of use before the carts collected the bodies for the pyres.  As such, he had become an ambassador of sorts, accepting the well-wishes of the people on behalf of Alistair and Elissa but making no promises or assurances.  How could he?  There was nothing he could say.

If there was one thing to be thankful for, it was that the streets were emptying of corpses and new pyres were not as frequent as even a few days ago.  Sten was excelling in his task; more so since Oghren had begun to assist him, having no distraction of his own now that the dwarves had departed for Orzammar with their dragon bone.  The dwarf had claimed that he might stay and earn a few more coin before trying his luck with the indomitable Felsi, but Zevran suspected that Oghren did not want to leave until there was some hint of improvement in the Grey Wardens.  Loyalty, once won, was a powerful force.

With the carts departed for the pyres lining the outside of the city walls, Zevran chose not to follow and instead made his way through the city streets, idly noting which areas would require further visits with the carts, towards the Guerrin estate.  It was compulsion more than anything else.  Certainly, none of the valuables he stripped from the bodies were ever ear-marked for the likes of Enchanter Liahn, the templars or even Hero and King.  Perhaps Zevran felt that title of Acknowledged Companion more keenly than he liked to admit.  He needed to know how they fared each day; even if it was only so that he could confide in hushed whispers with Sten and Oghren that there was no change.

Such a frequent sight within the estate, the former Crow—a traitorous Crow, at that—was rarely, if ever, stopped by the Guerrin guards.  He imagined that questions would be asked should he ever be discovered in a part of the estate which did not house either the King or his companions, but as Zevran had no interest in being anywhere but in the vicinity of the King or his companions, it was never an issue.  Truly, times had changed.

What also had changed was the relative peace which pervaded the halls of the east wing where both Leliana and Elissa slept.  Striding through the estate, Zevran caught the sound of raised voices which cut through the imposed tranquillity of the house.

“I will not!”

A clink of armour greeted the sudden outburst.  “Do not try my patience, Enchanter.”

Lengthening his stride, Zevran hastened to the open doorway of Leliana’s room, keen to bear witness—and so hopefully prevent a violence—to what was evidently a brewing argument between Enchanter Liahn and at least one of the templars.

A sorry sight greeted him.  Two templars, one of whom was Knight-Captain Joel himself, stood between Liahn and the bed in which Leliana lay, who was oblivious to the animosity as a result of her enforced sleep.  With her fists clenched by her side, the Enchanter was diminutive yet fierce as she stared down the Knight-Captain.

“You have no authority to command me,” she snapped, eyes flashing in her barely suppressed anger.  “I have done nothing to warrant this!  I have used my magic appropriately and I have kept to all terms which you have imposed upon me; you have no right to decree who I do and do not treat!”

“This order is not a reflection of your actions, Enchanter,” the Knight-Captain growled, his own stance as guarded and taut as that of the mage.  “It is a necessity given the circumstances.  Do not seek to challenge me on this; you will not succeed.”

Whatever else Liahn thought, she at least appeared to acknowledge truth within the man’s statement.  Her shoulders sagged and her chin lowered so that her gaze refocused upon the floor at the Captain’s feet.

Although not all of her defiance was wholly subdued.  “May I at least continue to keep her asleep for as long as I remain here?” she asked through clenched teeth.  “If she were to awaken, the pain would be excruciating to endure.”

The Knight-Captain clenched his jaw but offered a begrudging nod.  “So long as it does not deplete your mana.  All of your focus and energies must be focused upon the King now, Enchanter.”

“It is only a basic spell,” she muttered, moving towards the bed.  “You may sense as much for yourselves.”  Laying her hand upon Leliana’s forehead, Liahn murmured a few words beneath her breath, prompting a soft blue light to encase her hand.  She remained static for a few moments and then Leliana began to breathe more deeply, presumably sent further into the Fade.  “There.”  Liahn glanced over her shoulder towards the Captain.  “I will need to perform the spell in the morning and the evening.  Is that acceptable?”

Captain Joel exchanged a look with the second templar, silently confirming that the spell required only a minimal amount of mana, before giving a short nod.  “Twice a day will be acceptable.”  His posture relaxing a fraction now the confrontation was at an end, he gestured with a flick of his hand that the second templar was to make his exit.  “I am to report our arrangement to Arl Guerrin.  You have as long as it takes me to speak with him to tidy your equipment and move to the King’s bedroom, Enchanter.”

“Yes, Knight-Captain.”  The words were flat.

Having stood to one side when the other templar exited, Zevran remained where he stood as Knight-Captain Joel also took his leave.  His eye lingered a moment upon Zevran before he spared a cursory nod towards the elf, evidently unfazed that the elf had borne witness to the confrontation.  It was hardly something which Zevran had not already suspected: Arl Guerrin was invested only in the welfare of the King.

Once the two templars had begun their descent down the staircase, Zevran stepped into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

“It is as we feared then?” he enquired of the mage.

She moved to and fro as she gathered up her scattered belongings, carefully collecting them into a pack.  Her controlled movements were a stark contrast to the way she gnawed upon her lip.  “Yes,” she responded, turning her attention to the many vials gathered atop the writing desk.  “It’s the lyrium.  The fact that the Captain Joel will not even send a message to Kinloch Hold to request additional supplies suggests that there is not enough to last the time it would take for the message to be answered.  I suspect there is barely enough to ensure we return to Kinloch Hold before their withdrawal begins.”

“What if the lyrium runs out before Alistair is healed?”

The tinkle of glass upon glass sounded as Liahn picked up two vials and set them in her pack.  “His Majesty _is_ healed.  He is just exhausted in mind and spirit.  It manifests in this constant sleep.”  Sparing a glance over her shoulder towards the elf, Zevran caught the haunted look in her eye.  “I cannot heal such a thing—only time may do that.  Yet the Arl refuses to accept my diagnosis.  He insists more can be done.”  She waved a hand towards the door, indicating the departed templars.  “So he lays pressure upon the Knight-Captain to assert authority over me.”

She looked back to her pack, shaking her head.  “Such healing cannot be forced.  I think the Captain knows this given what happened with Uldred.  But he is desperate for the King to awaken so we may leave, so he bends to the order of the Arl.”  Her hand curled into a fist and she brought it down against the table in a show of impotent frustration.  “We have still to fully heal our own in Kinloch Hold; how am I to achieve in a matter of days what has not been accomplished in months amongst our own?”

“But what of the convulsions he suffered?”

Sighing, Liagn reached for her pestle and mortar, lovingly placing it within her pack as she answered.  ““None since I restricted access of the Hero, and no lasting effects that I can tell.”  Her head fell forward and she closed her eyes.  “That is another matter: Elissa.  The Arl observes only token concern over her, yet she is ailing as badly as His Majesty.”

“She is not King,” Zevran murmured, recalling the whispers on the streets.  “The city needs to see its King.”

“If it is so they may be inspired, their need will go unanswered,” she replied flatly, moving from the desk towards the bedside table, tidying the bottles into ordered rows so that whoever administered the various tonics and salves would do so with more ease.  “I will not force him awake unless it is absolutely necessary.  It would be harmful to his future well-being.”

Given the discussion with the Knight-Captain, it was clear that what he thought was necessary was not shared by Liahn.  Desperation was making itself more apparent every day and with the dwindling supplies of lyrium, it was evident that Liahn’s hitherto uncontested authority was now to be overruled.

“What of Leliana’s care?” he asked, watching as she tided.  “The spell will keep her unconscious but what of all these medicines you have crafted for her benefit?”

“The servants who have assisted me will know what to do,” Liahn assured him.  “The outer wounds are healing well already; it is the damage inside which is of most concern to me and no salve or potion will alleviate that.”

He turned his eye to Leliana.  She had partially turned when the emissary cast its electrical spell and any exposed flesh on the right side of her body had borne the brunt.  Whilst Liahn had assured him it would all heal, she had also admitted that there would be scars.  If only that were all there was to contend with.

“She needs long-term healing, doesn’t she?”

Liahn hesitated—but healing was not a speciality which encouraged a mealy-mouthed approach.  “Yes.”

“Longer than you can provide even by refusing to wake Alistair before he might awake naturally?”

“Yes.”

A long exhale escaped from Zevran.  It was clear what must be done.  “Teach me,” he instructed the mage.  “Teach me how I might care for her in your place.”

* * *

Alone, not lonely.  Existing high above the city, contained within two rooms of the Palace tower, Anora reminded herself of her mantra: she was merely alone, not lonely.

She was also uniformed.  It pained her to look across the ruined city of Denerim, to know that there were decisions to be made and guidance to be given, and be able to do nothing.  Of the victory over the Blight, she was aware.  Nothing else could explain the shaft of blinding light which had pierced through the darkened sky from the rooftop of Fort Drakon.

Of there being attempts to cleanse the battlefield, she made assumptions.  There had been flickers of light visible from the rooftop over the subsequent days and nights since the ethereal light.  Fires, she presumed.  Something was being done with the ‘demon corpse.  The smoke which drifted over the city walls, sometimes so thick as to obscure the landscape, also hinted at pyres for those who had fallen in battle.  So decisions were underway.

But what of the rest?  There was much to be done and precious little time to do it in.  After a year of hardships and uncertainty, many would look to the Crown to provide stability and succour.  Such things did not occur simply through force of will.  Aid must be sought, alliances confirmed, trade encouraged.  To think that such concerns were going unattended made her heart ache.  She had no wish to see Ferelden fall—to Blight or anarchy.

And whilst the Blight was defeated, anarchy remained a very real threat.  The Landsmeet’s decision to approve Alistair Theirin’s claim to the throne was but a part of re-establishing stability.  The teyrnirs of Gwaren and Highever were both without leaders and had no apparent heirs to the titles.  Elissa Cousland could not be Queen-Consort _and_ Teyrna; the Bannorn would revolt at the Crown’s easy access to power.  Without a firm hand, the Banns would fall into squabbles which would upend everything.  Successors had to be appointed and with all due haste.

Then, of course, there was the question over what would be done about herself.  The apparent compassion with which Alistair had sentenced her to imprisonment rather than death—a decision she would not have made had their positions been reversed—hinted at foresight she had not expected from the younger man.  Should he fall in battle, Ferelden still had a leader.  But with the success of the two Grey Wardens, what place did she occupy in this new regime?  She was but a tarnished part of the past.

Folding her arms across her chest, Anora stared out of the casement window across the city in the waning light, wishing she could offer counsel in some way.  Although she bore no lover towards the upstart King and his manipulative Consort, her loyalty to her country eclipsed all else.  To be a denied a way of assisting in its recovery... perhaps it was a deliberate punishment on the part of Alistair?

Or perhaps she had simply been forgotten.  Alone, not lonely—but also forgotten.  It was a thought she found increasingly difficult to banish from her mind.  No word had come from any noble since the battle of Denerim.

A knock at her door signalled the arrival of her evening meal.  Another day close to an end and still she had no answers to any of her questions.  Turning from the window, she let her arms fall from across her chest and lightly clasped her hands in front of her, ever the picture of decorum and grace.

“Come,” she called in a voice as steady as when she had addressed the Landsmeet.

Perhaps tomorrow would bring answers.  She could but hope.

* * *

 The revelation that Leliana required far greater healing than Enchanter Liahn could provide weighed upon Zevran.  Once Liahn had explained and demonstrated the various ways in which Leliaa would require his care, Zevran had ensured the red-head’s comfort before spending the remainder of the day and a good part of the night revisiting old haunts where Elissa and Alistair had often found supplies nestled in some corner.  Any actions which might produce even one more vial of lyrium.  Not that it solved the heart of the matter, that of Leliana’s welfare, but what else could he do?  He even approached some of his old contacts, risking the wrath of the Crows by enquiring as to whether their agents could source supplies of lyrium.  They could—for a price, of course—but not in the timeframe required.

It was Sten who had provided a possible solution.  When Zevran confided in the Qunari and Oghren about the plight of Leliana, he had remarked that the Dalish Keeper had once healed Alistair from almost certain death after encountering a tainted Eluvian in the depths of the Brecilian Forest.  He queried if the feat could not be repeated with Leliana.  Who was Zevran to decide if it could or could not?

Emerging through the main access in and out of the city, the gates having been destroyed by the darkspawn, Zevran made his way across the churned and trodden ground towards the Dalish camp situated about half a mile from the walls and set back from the road.  Many of the refugees cast their eye towards the tents, wondering if this was to be their sanctuary, but shied away upon spying the armed Dalish sentinels who patrolled the perimeter.  Sten had ensured that no pyre was built near the camp, preventing the elves from becoming choked with the acrid smoke as it drifted on the breeze.  It was a consideration few others would have considered: without the example of the Grey Wardens, the alliance forged between dwarf and elf and human was already crumbling.

While the Dalish camp had never been sprawling, constructed only in the aftermath of the battle so that the elves may tend to their wounded, it was still noticeably smaller in size than before.  Since they had not wished to risk their _aravels_ , there was only the faint evidence of long-gone tents in the softened ground which hinted at the greater number of Dalish who had answered the treaty but were nowdeparted, be it to the Creators or their respective clans.

As he approached, Zevran readied himself for some order to halt but although the sentinels kept a close eye on his progress, none opposed him. In fact, his appearance must have warranted a message to be sent directly to Keeper Lanaya because she suddenly emerged from one of the tents, her gaze already trained in his direction. She waited outside the tent, perfectly poised, while he covered the remaining distance in long strides.

“ _Andaran atish’an_ ,” she offered as he drew near.

“It is a sad day indeed when the approach of an Ativan Crow does not warrant some degree of caution,” he remarked with an ever-ready smile, though it was somewhat more wilted than it used to be.

“It must be the company you keep.”

“Ahh, so it must be.  Keep with those who are virtuous and courageous and all will assume you bear the same traits.”

Indulging him with a small smile, Lanaya gestured that he join her as she made her way towards the communal fire.  “I am glad to see you, Zevran,” she confided, kneeling by the fire as she began to prepare some herbs with which to flavour the hot water bubbling in a small pot.  “We have had no news since your last visit.”  She paused in her task and raised her head, gaze steady as she regarded him.  “We know that the dwarves have already left.”

Sitting cross-legged by the fire, Zevran nodded.  “Yes, they discussed their departure with Arl Guerrin.”  He leant forward in his earnestness to persuade Lanaya to somehow provide a miraculous solution to the problem of the templars and their lyrium.  “Keeper, there has been no news because there is no news.  Alistair remains unconscious—although Enchanter Liahn insists it is a natural sleep which aids his recovery.  He hasn’t had any more convulsions since Elissa last visited.”

“That is good news,” she murmured, her attention returning to the steaming pot over which she dropped in an assortment of sprigs and leaves, all different herbs with varying uses.  “I have been thinking more about it since you first told me.”

She dusted her hands of the last of the herbs and then gently stirred the water so that the flavours could infuse.  “When I healed Alistair after the encounter with the Eluvian...” she paused and glanced up, lifting an eyebrow in question as to whether Zevran knew of the events she talked about.  He nodded.  “When I healed him, he would not rest until he saw her.  He knew that she was near.  He seemed to take comfort from it.”

Zevran kept a passive expression.  “They are... estranged.”

“Yes,” Lanaya acknowledged without further remark.  Apparently, that was also no news to her.  “But perhaps even when unconscious, an emotional response could be prompted through their connection.  He would know even in his sleep that she was near.”

Her observation was astute.  Perhaps it would help Enchanter Liahn to understand how the connection of the taint might exacerbate the emotional upheaval between the two Wardens.  Maybe that knowledge could be used to encourage a more natural awakening for Alistair.  It did not cross his mind that the ability might be a secret – neither Alistair nor Elissa had taken measures to obscure the fact.  They did not declare it, but neither had they ever denied it.  Victory during a great many skirmishes had relied on their peculiar ability.

“I will speak with the Circle healer,” he promised Lanaya, confident that Liahn would at least listen to him.  When a salve she had crafted did not heal as fast as she had expected, it was advice from Lanaya—communicated via Zevran—which had helped the Enchanter to identify the problem in her crafting.  “But it is not Alistair who causes the greatest concern.”

Not one word did Lanaya speak.  Instead, she poured some of the herbal water into a wooden cup and passed it to Zevran.  Whether intended or not, it was the invitation Zevran took to begin the tale.

He explained all that occurred with Leliana since the battle: the diagnosis of her injuries, the success and failures of the methods used by Enchanter Liahn to heal those injuries and, finally, the reality that there was simply not the time to heal Leliana.  It required intensive treatment, both in terms of time and magic.

“I cannot do what you would wish of me,” Lanaya remarked in a soft voice, her hands warming around her cup.  “I have a responsibility to my clan.  It would take months to help Leliana towards recovery.  I cannot be parted from them for that length of time.”

“You healed Alistair alongside the clan.  Take her with you.”

“No, I did not,” she corrected, voice still soothing.  “There was a risk of becoming tainted.  There were only a small number of us involved in Alistair’s healing.”  She took a slow sip of the drink as she savoured the taste.  “As a Warden, the clan were more tolerant towards him.  There are many stories of Wardens and their acceptance of elves.  But if I returned with a _shemlen_ , even an honoured _shemlen_ such as Leliana, it would unsettle the clan.  I cannot risk that, Zevran.”

The answer was hardly a surprise but it was unwelcome nonetheless.  He stared down into the herbal concoction and realised that his hands were trembling from the effort of denying the extent of his desolation.

“Zevran.”  Lanaya reached out and laid a steadying hand upon his arm, absorbing the tremors so that his hands stilled.  “Why do you not make this request of your Enchanter?  Leliana is a part of your clan; shouldn’t she be cared for as such?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he muttered, still dazed at the disappointment of what had always been a far-fetched hope.

A low call from the edge of the camp drew their attention.  Leaving their still-full cups by the fire, both Lanaya and Zevran made for the source of the sound.  Approaching the sentinel who had sounded the warning, it was plain to see what had caused the signal.  Along the highway, forming an island amongst the sea of refugees, four figures drew attention without even trying: an elf and three humans who were fully equipped in armour and weapons.

“My apologies, Keeper,” the sentinel began, bowing his head.  “I acted overly hastily.  There is no need for concern.  They are only—”

“Grey Wardens,” Zevran provided, his keen gaze recognising the insignia emblazoned upon the armour of the human female as she turned to address one of the men behind her.

The sentinel inclined his head by way of silent confirmation.

Lanaya cast a sidelong glance towards the Crow.  “They will have answers which we cannot offer.  They may even have solutions, Zevran.”

He felt his heart begin to lift.  Grey Wardens would understand Grey Wardens matters; they would help to alleviate some of the worries which plagued the city and its King and Queen.  “Truly, I hope so.”


End file.
